How The Other Half Lives
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock gets drawn into a case with an unusual killer.  Sherlock/John established relationship and probably some slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Set after "A Mirror Without" and "Joyeux Noel". Do not take the references to American crime shows as commentary - I love me some SVU. Rated M for just in case. I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock didn't look up when John came at almost ten at night, because he'd been expecting John to be late and was therefore unsurprised and unwilling to be distracted. John's clinic had been running an evening vaccination session for flu shots. Sherlock had tried to get John to bring some samples of the vaccines home, so he could run some experiments on their potency if administered in large doses and with other drugs, but John had refused, which was vexing. Something about the legal ramifications, although Sherlock could easily dodge these, but John seemed worried about losing his medical license, which was preposterous. Who would Sherlock tell? Sometimes, John was baffling. Sherlock suspected this was deliberate.

Sherlock was making do with studying the effects of ammonia on the degradation of human skin after death but prior to the onset of rigor mortis. It was not, all things considered, particularly interesting. At least, not yet.

He hoped there would be a new body available in the morgue in St. Bart's within the next day or two, one that he could run some tests on. There were times when he missed Molly Hooper's presence, because she had generally let him do whatever he had wanted, although the newest tech seemed to find his experiments interesting and had even put forth some good ideas of her own. Sherlock suspected she may actually be intelligent, which was encouraging. He was already considering recommending to Lestrade that he replace Anderson with her, though, to be fair, Lestrade could replace Anderson with a trained hamster and it would be an improvement.

There was a thud of mail on the table but Sherlock ignored this, greeting John vaguely from the kitchen as the other man shed his coat, scarf and gloves and hung them on his peg. John grunted in return but Sherlock didn't notice, adjusting the focus on his microscope, frowning to himself concerning the results he was getting. Or not getting. Perhaps he needed to add some bleach?

"Who's Bess?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him, chewing on his lower lip, considering what other cleaning supplies he may need to purchase the following day. What did they have in the flat? Cleaning was so often John's purview.

"Sherlock. Who's Bess?"

Sherlock huffed, looking up. John seemed tired, but this was not unexpected.

"I don't know anyone named Bess," Sherlock replied. "Am I to be keeping track of all your former girlfriends or army mates?"

Something flashed in John's eyes but Sherlock ignored it. The doctor held up a postcard that had been taken from the mail pile – Sherlock hadn't gone out that day, so hadn't bothered gathering their mail. For some reason, this seemed to annoy John.

It was a postcard from Venice, with a picture of the Rialto Bridge in the middle distance, the city spreading out around it. Sherlock gave it a disinterested glance. He'd been to Venice, and had found it disappointing. What kind of recommendation was "romantic" for a city anyway?

"Still don't know anyone named Bess," he said. "Nor do I know anyone currently visiting Italy. Who is she, then? Trying to make me jealous?" He asked the last question off-handedly, turning back to the microscope.

"Might as well shout at thunder," John muttered. Sherlock leaned back, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be a bore, John, of course I'd be upset if you were interested in someone else. But I don't know anyone named Bess, so unless it's to the wrong address, it must be for you."

"It's addressed to you first," John said, holding it out. Sherlock sighed and took it, dismissing the picture on the front and flipping it over.

The addressee information read:

S. Holmes & J. Watson

The text read:

Lovely weather down here, although they haven't the faintest idea how to make a decent cuppa.  
Things are going well; nice to be out and about in the fresh air occasionally. Will write again soon.

-Ciao, Bess

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he grinned, pushing himself to his feet, the tedious and disappointing experiment forgotten. He checked the postmark date; it had been sent only four days previous.

"So you do know her," John said in what Sherlock considered an unnecessarily dark tone.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head and still grinning, ignoring John's displeased expression. "_Him_. John, it's from Sam."

At this, John lost the displeasure and looked surprised.

"What?" he asked. "I thought he was in France? And that his name was Yves?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, indicating what he thought of John's observational abilities.

"Yes, he's in France, but obviously he wouldn't send us anything from there. And yes, his name is Yves. Yves Phillipe _Bessette_, John. Bess. Do you think he'd sign it 'Yves'? Or 'Sam'? This is his handwriting, too."

He stuck the postcard on the fridge, using a small magnet with the Union Jack printed on it hold it up. This was good news – it meant Sam was at least able to leave whatever hospital he was in for short periods of time. Sherlock suspected that the Interpol agent was still hospitalized, after all, he'd been quite badly injured the last time Sherlock had seen him, and that been before plunging off the Waterloo Bridge. Sherlock appreciated the postcard image more now; Sam had chosen the view of a bridge with good reason.

"You know his handwriting?" John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "I did tell you that he left me a note in the file Veronique gave me."

"You recognize his handwriting after seeing it once?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, surprised. "Wouldn't you?"

John shook his head, muttering something, and opened the fridge.

"Anything to eat?" he sighed.

"No," Sherlock said vaguely, sitting back down and returning his attention to his microscope. "Do we have any formaldehyde?"

"Why would we have formaldehyde?" John sighed.

"I need some," Sherlock replied. "I think I may come to the clinic with you tomorrow and check your supply room. I am distressingly short on materials around here."

John shut the fridge door louder than necessary.

"No you won't," he replied. "Dammit, why don't we have anything to eat?"

"We can do take away," Sherlock said.

"We've been doing that all week. I'm putting on weight, I can tell."

"Haven't noticed that," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, well," John grumbled. Sherlock frowned, looking up from his microscope.

"John, what are you on about?" he asked.

John stopped rummaging through a cupboard to look back at him.

"I'm hungry and tired," he said shortly. "I don't see why you can't make dinner when you're at home, if you can make breakfast."

Sherlock stared at him a moment, then sprang up, yanking open a cupboard and pulling out a can of soup. He dropped it on the counter, then returned to his microscope.

"If you want me to make dinner, you need to text me and tell me," he said. "Contrary to your unshakeable belief, I cannot read your mind."

John sighed but opened the can and dumped the contents into a pot. He heated it quickly, fishing about for a clean bowl as he did so, then poured the soup into the bowl. He plunked the bowl on a plate and disappeared into the livingroom, turning on the telly slightly louder than necessary.

After half an hour of trying to ignore the American crime drama John was watching at an unreasonable volume, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet with a scowl. He hated these shows; they were so banal. The American detectives ran about like children, never stopping to consider the facts in front of them. Was that any way to behave with a case? It was a wonder they were able to solve anything.

John looked up when Sherlock came into the livingroom, brown eyes darker than normal.

"All this because I didn't make dinner? Or because Sam sent a card?"

John was startled.

"What? No and _no_. I'm glad to hear from Sam."

"Then what?" Sherlock demanded.

John let out a sigh, shaking his head.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as he suspected this may make things worse. John had admonished him on more than one occasion about body language that suggested that he was impatient or didn't care. But he _was_ impatient. How did John expect him to get anything done acting like this?

"Anyway, doesn't matter," John sighed, picking up Sherlock's Union Jack pillow, which he had always insisted was tacky, and holding it protectively against his stomach, arms crossed defensively over it.

"It matters because you're distracting me," Sherlock said, tapping his fingers irately against the frame of the archway that led to the kitchen. John shot him an annoyed look, slouching down further on the couch, then rolled his eyes away, staring resolutely at the television screen. "Also, you _are_ my husband."

John's head snapped back, eyes blazing, cheeks suddenly red.

"Oh, that comes in second, does it?" he snarled.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes quickly.

"I'd think it rather went without saying," he replied coolly. "However, need I remind you that _you_ are the one who married a sociopath? I told you that the day you met me."

John stared at him, disbelief scrawled over his features.

"So now this is my fault?" he demanded.

"Frankly, I'm not even certain why we're assigning blame," Sherlock retorted. "I have absolutely no idea what you're upset about."

John stared at him again, then threw the pillow irately on the couch, pushing himself to his feet.

"I'm going to bed," he announced, then stalked out of the livingroom without a backward glance, leaving his dishes behind and the television on. Sherlock shut off the TV, but didn't touch the dishes; let John take care of his own mess in the morning.

He went back into the kitchen, throwing himself back into his chair and returning to the experiment with a new zeal born of frustration and the desire to make a point. Although about what, he still was not entirely clear. Fuming, Sherlock spun the magnification on his microscope to its fullest power, then wished he had some of the vaccine from John's clinic.

A little over an hour later, he heard John come back out the bedroom but didn't look up, refusing to be drawn further into a pointless and baffling argument. But the sound of the door opening made him sit up quickly and lean back. He saw John, in his pyjamas, unbolting the locks and stepping out.

"You've not got your coat!" Sherlock called, not even bothering to point out that John was in his pyjamas. What was the man up to? He had to be the most obstinate person in the world. Barring Mycroft, of course.

John ignored him, leaving the door open, and starting to the stairs. With a huff, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and followed, standing at the top of the stairway and John went down slowly, almost mechanically. Sherlock clattered down after him when he opened the outer door – John wasn't even wearing shoes, and it was mid-January.

"John!" Sherlock hissed.

John didn't look round, just stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, motionless for several minutes. Then he stepped back in, shut the door, and turned back, heading for the stairs. Sherlock met his eyes and was surprised – John looked at him, but was obviously not seeing him. His expression was glassy and slightly unfocused. He walked past Sherlock and put a hand on the banister, making his way back up to the flat.

Sherlock pulled out his phone quickly and was about to open the browser, but called up his contact list at the last second. He selected Tricia's name and sent her a quick text message.

_John is sleeping walking. Please advise. SH._

While waiting, he followed John back up the stairs and closed and relocked the door to their flat. The vibration of the phone in his hand redirected his attention.

_Just put him back to bed. Don't try waking him, unless you fancy getting a black eye. –T._

Sherlock frowned.

_Causes?_ he texted back.

There was a longer pause, during which time John had gone into the kitchen and had begun to methodically remove all of the cups and mugs from the cupboard.

_Stress, probably. Check the calendar, Homes._

_It's Holmes. With an L_., Sherlock texted back.

_Smart phone is not so smart_, Tricia replied. _Check the calendar! Then take care of your husband._

Sherlock knew her well enough to know that when she referred to John as Sherlock's husband, she was impressing on him that he needed to take responsibility. It had not taken Sherlock long – less than five seconds, actually – after meeting Tricia to deduce that she was the surgeon who had saved John's life after he'd been shot, that the memory still made her shaky, and that she stood in as a surrogate sister for Harry, who was far less dependable and far less often sober. More now, of course, but John never had to worry about that with Tricia. With anyone else, Sherlock may have been inclined to feel jealous, but he could tell that the relationship was more familial than anything.

He checked the date and time on his phone.

"Ah," he said softly.

It had just gone on midnight, January eighteenth. A year to the day since the crash. Sherlock sighed to himself and slipped his phone back into his pocket. What was it with people? So it had been one year since the crash that Moriarty had orchestrated. Moriarty was dead. One month ago, it had been eleven months after the accident, and John hadn't been sleeping walking about the flat, nor had he seemed to notice. Why did everyone put such stock in unrelated dates and events? It wasn't as though Sherlock was going to be in another crash, just because he'd been in one on this day a year previous. He'd survived thirty-four years of accident-free January eighteenths up until that point.

He went into the kitchen, where John had managed to remove a good chunk of their glassware from the cupboard and spread it out across the counter. Gently, so as not to startle the doctor and end up on the wrong end of John's right hook – which Sherlock had seen was very impressive – he took John's hands, then wrapped an arm around John's shoulders.

"Come on, John," he murmured softly. "Let's go back to bed."

John sighed but fell into step with him. Sherlock led his husband back into their bedroom and settled him into bed, tucking the covers about him. He went back into the kitchen and livingroom and shut off the lights, then returned to the bedroom, changing into pyjamas, dumping his clothing on the floor near the closet. He had no desire to sleep, nor was he tired, but he felt less like chasing John about the flat all night and herding him back into bed.

When he climbed in beside John, his husband curled up against him, wrapping one arm around his waist, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock was certain that had John been awake, this wouldn't have happened, given the attitude John had had when he'd gone to bed. Sherlock sighed, wrapping one leg protectively over John's hip and one arm over his shoulders.

He wondered if he could will himself to sleep. Then he wondered if he'd have to promise to go nowhere the next day, for fear of having delivery trucks run into him. Sherlock closed his eyes, repressing a sigh.

Bored. He was bored.

He needed a case, something to do, something to occupy his mind and his time. He felt more than in danger of falling into mediocrity. The last case he'd worked, right after new year's, had been so simple that he wondered why Lestrade had needed him. Really, was Scotland Yard getting so dim lately that they couldn't manage on their own? In the darkest moments of the night, Sherlock wondered if he'd lost something that was keeping him engaged when Moriarty died. It wasn't a thought he wanted to voice but he was certain John had picked up on it.

Expelling an angry breath, he forced himself to refocus, concentrating on the warm body in his arms and tried not to think about how, right now, it would be a pleasure to be presented with a cold body on a slab.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So apparently there is slash! Wasn't entirely expecting that. And it did need the M rating. Also, I get to use THE LINE, which makes me happy. Enjoy!

* * *

When Sherlock awoke in the morning, John was already up and in the shower. Sherlock lay in bed by himself for a moment, feeling the fading heat on his right side where John's body had been, then tossed off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He checked the clock – just a little before seven, so he'd slept later than he was used to – and then rooted around in his bedside table for a package of nicotine patches. Opening the box, he found there was only one left and muttered unhappily to himself, but he wasn't about to go into the bathroom right now and procure a new box.

He peeled the patch from its paper and pressed it into his arm with another sigh. Not a good sign that the morning started with a cigarette craving. He wondered if he could argue with John that he needed just one, to celebrate the one year anniversary of the crash.

Probably not. John hadn't even let him have one when he'd shot Moriarty.

He tossed the empty box back into the drawer when John came back into the room. They met eyes and muttered good mornings to each other, but the inexplicable grumpiness from the night before hung over them. John dressed and Sherlock watched him, enjoying it despite himself.

"You are not at all putting on weight," he commented.

Buttoning up his shirt, John glanced over his shoulder. The room was still partly dark, since the sun would not rise for another hour yet, but it was warm, since John had obviously turned up the heat after rising and before showering.

"Sorry?" John asked.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh.

"Last night, you said you were putting on weight from all of the take out. That isn't true. I would have noticed." He gestured at John with an open hand. "And you very clearly are not."

John stared at him a moment, then crossed the room in a single step and bent down, kissing him hard. Startled, Sherlock pulled back and saw a flash of something – hurt, anger? – in John's eyes.

"Fine," John muttered and stalked out of the room. Sherlock sat, bewildered, for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the sensation of the cold floor against his soles, and followed John out.

"John!" he snapped. John ignored him, back to him in the livingroom, pretending to tidy his dishes from the previous night. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently against the doorframe.

"John," he said again, somewhat calmer this time and John straightened and turned, his expression still dark. Sherlock blew a sigh between his lips, giving John a pointed look. "I wasn't saying no," he continued. "You caught me off guard."

John stared at him a moment, then set the dishes back down with a clatter and crossed the livingroom, pushing Sherlock back into the bedroom and onto the bed with surprising speed and strength. Sherlock blinked, but had no other time to react before John straddled him, pinning him down neatly at the waist, and leaned down, kissing him hard again. Sherlock kissed back, reaching up, but John snagged his wrists, pushing his arms back into the mattress. He caught Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, nipping it and drawing blood. Sherlock gasped and John sucked, his tongue darting over the small wound.

Then he pulled his face away, lifting Sherlock's left arm and tugging the nicotine patch off with his teeth. Sherlock gasped again, then winced, when John bit the sensitive skin of his inner forearm – not particularly lightly – before turning back, catching Sherlock's lips. He tugged on Sherlock's lower lip again, drawing more blood, his fingers quickly and expertly unbuttoning Sherlock's pyjama top, then peeling it off. Sherlock could feel his lower lip bruising as John kept at it, but the sensation made him gasp, sending a shock of desire down his spine.

He wasn't certain he wanted John to continue, but he at the same time, knew very well he did not want John to stop. There was a glint in John's eyes that Sherlock recognized – it was controlled danger, one that told Sherlock the other man knew what his limits were, and exactly how far to go to get there. The idea that John would take him precisely to that point made Sherlock shudder with both anticipation and apprehension. The low chuckle against his lips told Sherlock that John knew that.

The slight tremor and the hitch in Sherlock's breathing when John tugged harder on his tender lower lip made the doctor smile against Sherlock's skin. He dropped his head then, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin on Sherlock's neck, working his way slowly downward. Sherlock groaned, arching his head to the left, giving John more room. John gave a throaty chuckle and the warmth of his breath and the vibration of the noise rasping against his skin elicited a soft whimper from Sherlock, right before John scraped his teeth across the soft spot just above Sherlock's collarbone, the one John had discovered on their first night together drove Sherlock mad. Sherlock gasped and arched his body and John pushed him roughly back down onto the mattress. His hands found the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama trousers and tugged them down. Sherlock kicked them off quickly and John grinned against his skin, stretching his body out to cover the younger man's. The sensation of John's fully clothed body against his bare skin made Sherlock moan and he reached up again, but John snagged his wrists with one hand, dragging his arms above his head and pinning them there almost effortlessly. He dropped his head further, running his tongue over Sherlock's collarbone, then looking up with bright eyes glinting in the low lighting. Sherlock met his gaze with difficulty, then shuddered and surrendered when John refocused his attention on the sensitive spot just above his collarbone.

* * *

Amanda Eddington Spencer was there when Sherlock arrived, long red hair pulled up and off of her shoulders, in a tight French twist at the back of her head, although a few stray curls had already worked themselves out. She was wearing medical scrubs under her lab coat, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a thin gold chain with a small glass pendant around her neck. She smiled at him when he came in, her green eyes bright, and held out a cup of coffee. Sherlock took it, noting the flash of curiosity in her eyes but dismissing it. She kept her hand out expectantly and he dug two pounds from his pocket, letting the coins clink into her palm. Unlike Molly, she was not willing to pay for his coffee.

"Happy birthday," Sherlock greeted her.

Amanda blinked in surprise, sitting up somewhat straighter on her lab stool, then propped her elbows on the lab counter, evaluating him.

"All right, go," she said.

"You smell faintly of flowers, not perfume, but real ones, which means you received fresh flowers sometime within the last day, probably yesterday evening. This wasn't a fight, because you've been stopping to smell them frequently, which is why the smell has clung to you, even though you've obviously showered. The fact that you're smelling them so much means they have an emotional meaning to you, so someone special gave them to you – not your parents, too sentimental for that, so boyfriend. But you look rested, so, again, this wasn't a fight, or else you'd have gotten less sleep and would look more displeased. The new necklace was a gift, just recently; you didn't have it last time I was here, and it's far too clean to be older than a few days at the very most. Someone who knows you well, then, because not a ring or a bracelet, which you can't wear here. Not an engagement – no ring, because you can't wear it here anyway, but if it were an engagement, you'd be overly excited and would have told me the moment I walked in. Flowers and a necklace that are not in response to a fight, and a bit too much for just a gift, so it has to be an occasion. You don't seem suspicious about it, so this isn't something to convince you he's not having an affair. Boyfriend, because the soap you're using is fairly unisex, doesn't smell of much of anything except soap – something you'd buy as a compromise because you know he doesn't like heavily scented products. If it were a girlfriend, you wouldn't worry about that, since women tend to be attracted to similar smells. Your birthday was yesterday."

She laughed, nodding.

"Twenty-nine," Sherlock said.

Amanda rolled her eyes.

"Thirty-one, but I know you knew that. Thanks anyway. And thanks for the happy birthday."

She looked away to pick up her own coffee and take a sip, careful to keep the beverage away from the lab bench and the equipment resting on it. Sherlock set his coffee down and unwound his scarf, tossing it over a stool. Amanda looked up and him and burst out laughing, covering her mouth quickly to keep herself from spraying coffee.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

She managed to swallow, her palm pressed against her lips, then tapped her lower lip and then the right side of her neck.

"Someone had a good morning," she commented.

"Damn and blast!" Sherlock said, picking up his scarf and tossing it round his neck again. He was immediately grateful he'd taken a cab, not the tube. Amanda was giggling, her head resting on the lab bench, shoulders shaking. He'd forgotten about his neck, and had grown used to the dull, tender bruised feeling in his lip. Carefully, he pursed his lips, then regretted it when a flash of remembered desire coursed through him. This was not going to be a productive start to the day.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock sighed at the tech's laughter. "Do alert me if Anderson comes in, won't you? I'll need to hide."

She raised her head, wiping her eyes, and nodded.

"I will," she promised. "Because he might. Lord, that man is a bitch. We have a new murder just in early this morning."

At this, Sherlock perked up.

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

"Not to you," Amanda replied. "You can see him, though, if you promise not to go all PTSD on me."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

She tapped her forehead.

"Shot in the head," she replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could not figure out why everyone kept believing he was going to suffer some kind of shock over Moriarty's death. He had been in shock immediately following the event, which he understood to be a very typical reaction. Secretly, Sherlock felt let down by himself that he had succumbed to something so normal, even though John had pointed out – several times – that it took quite a bit of training to shoot someone and walk calmly away from it. He had also stressed to Sherlock that actual police officers had to go for mandatory therapy following a shooting, but Sherlock ignored this. One day of shock had been plenty.

"I will not 'go all PTSD' on you," Sherlock said dryly.

"Good," Amanda said. "But I want to warn you, so you can't blame anything on me. He's down the hall, room two."

Sherlock picked up his coffee and turned toward the door, and Amanda cleared her throat pointedly. With an inward sigh, he looked back.

"Coat, Holmes?" she asked, pointing to a sign on the wall. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her but snagged a lab coat. Shortly after she'd begun working at St. Bart's, Amanda had established two rules for him:

1. Sherlock must pay for his own damn coffee  
2. Sherlock must wear a lab coat (and gloves!) when dealing with corpses.

Underneath, she had written:

If Sherlock does not do this, Amanda will not let him play in the morgue.

John had drawn a smiley face under this the first time he'd seen it.

A far cry from Molly, indeed.

He left his overcoat and suit jacket in the lab space and slipped the lab coat over his shirt, then left Amanda to do whatever she was meant to do that morning, heading for the corpse in the second cold storage room. He rolled up the sleeves of his coat and shirt, ignoring the bruise on his left arm and the fainter ones around his wrists, and snapped on a pair of white latex gloves.

Sherlock glanced at the corpse, then flipped the toe tag over between his index finger and thumb.

Roland Sandford, age forty-six, from East Dulwich.

Cause of death, a single bullet to the forehead.

Sherlock gazed at the man and wondered if Anderson was trying to sabotage this case, or if he were really just a complete imbecile. He removed his scarf, which would otherwise become cumbersome, then began searching the body carefully, pulling out his hand lens and pausing occasionally to make some notes on his phone for later. Within two minutes, he'd found what he was looking for and straightened up, chewing on his lower lip, then cursing and stepping back from the body, pressing his right wrist to his mouth.

Yes, he must remember not to do that.

Damn John.

Although, really, he couldn't find the means to be truly upset. If he didn't concentrate, he could still taste John on his lips and skin. Certainly he could taste his own blood again. Sherlock grabbed a tissue and dabbed at his lip until it stopped bleeding, then balled it up and tossed it in the trash.

He checked the man's personal effects, the things that had been on his body but had been removed before he'd been put on the gurney: glasses, watch, wedding ring, key card for a parking deck in the downtown area. Then he carefully checked Sandford's arms and legs, but found nothing else.

The click of shoes on the hallway corridor told him Amanda was coming, so he tried to look suitably engrossed with the body, although Sandford had already given up his secrets.

"He was murdered," Sherlock announced when she came into the room.

"No shit, Sherlock," the tech said, casting a sideways glance at him while looking for something else. "What gave it away? Was it the bullet hole in his skull?"

"He got that after he was murdered," Sherlock replied and his lips twitched triumphantly when Amanda forgot whatever quest had sent her into the room and turned to face him.

"Sorry? How?" she asked. The sound of voices from the down the hall caught their attention and she looked momentarily alarmed.

"Uh oh, incoming," she said and darted to the door.

"Don't leave me!" Sherlock hissed, but she was gone and he crouched down so that he was mostly hidden by Sandford's body on its slab, visible only from the nose up. A moment later, Anderson and Lestrade were in the room, stopping short when they saw him.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Anderson demanded.

"Solving your case," Sherlock replied coolly, pretending as though he were still examining the body, not meeting their eyes.

"Know who did it, then?" Anderson asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. "But I know what didn't do it. It wasn't the bullet wound."

"Are you bloody insane? He was shot in the forehead point blank!"

With a sigh, Sherlock pushed himself all the way to his feet. Lestrade and Anderson started, both of them staring at him and Sherlock curled his upper lip, which really just made his lower lip hurt and threaten to bleed again.

"What in the world happened to you?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock crossed his arms, noting that they were noting the bruises around his wrists and on his left forearm as well.

"John happened to me," he said shortly. To his surprise, Lestrade coloured bright red. "Why are you blushing?" he demanded. "You weren't there."

"Oh, Lord," Anderson said. "Not something I need to picture."

"Given your limited imagination, it shouldn't be a problem," Sherlock replied. "Yes, he was shot, and yes, at point blank range as you say. But look at his face."

There was a moment when both other men didn't seem to want to give up staring at Sherlock's bruises and bite marks but then Lestrade refocused, taking charge, stepping toward the gurney and looking down at Sandford's body. After a moment, with a glower, Anderson followed suit. Someone had cleaned around the wound on the forehead, and because the bullet was doubtlessly police or military grade issue, it had exploded within the body, and hadn't exited. Sherlock doubted there was much left to Sandford's brain anymore. There were powder burns on his face, particularly around the eyes and temples, because he'd been within a meter of the shooter. His eyelashes and eyebrows had been badly singed.

"What about it?" Lestrade asked with a sigh.

"Look at his expression," Sherlock prompted, wondering how these men functioned on a daily basis.

"He hasn't got one," Anderson answered. "He's dead."

"No, he hasn't got one!" Sherlock replied. "That's precisely the point! James Moriarty looked surprised when I shot him – and he still looked surprised the next day when you showed me the body. This man was shot point blank range in the face, which means he was facing his attacker, and had to have seen him. Who wouldn't react to having a gun to their face? He has nothing – not fear, not shock, not surprise. He's not blind, because there were glasses in his personal effects, but not a very strong prescription, so even if he hadn't been wearing them, he could see a gun at less than three feet. Even if he'd asked someone to shoot him in the head, there would be some sort of expression, not nothing."

Anderson and Lestrade stared at him a moment.

"Then what?" Lestrade asked. A flash of annoyance crossed Anderson's face, which Sherlock privately thought made him look like a small badger, but ignored that internal commentary and stepped toward the foot of the gurney. He pushed apart the man's first and second toes on his left foot and pointed, holding up his hand lens. Lestrade took it and peered through it, then handed it to Anderson, looking surprised.

"Needle mark," Sherlock said. "Not a drug addict, because there's only one, and no track marks anywhere else, not on his arms, legs, between his fingers. No healing lesions, either. No marks from insulin needles, which would be on the legs or arms, so this was not a man who needed injections. Someone overdosed him with something, then shot him to make it look like a shooting death."

"Why go to that trouble?" Lestrade asked.

"Haven't a clue," Sherlock said. "But if you take me to the crime scene, I'll find you some."


	3. Chapter 3

There was a patrol car in front of Roland Sandford's small house and two bored uniformed officers keeping an eye on the morbidly fascinated neighbours and the media people who were still hanging about. These latter swarmed Lestrade when he arrived with Sherlock, but the consulting detective ignored them, clattering up the short set of stairs to the front door and stopping just outside the entrance. He fished a pair of latex gloves he'd taken from the morgue from his pocket and put them on, taking care not to snag the left glove on his wedding ring. It had taken Sherlock about a day of practice to learn to do this properly, and John had caught him at it with a baffled look, until Sherlock explained that he was not going to be found taking the ring on and off. He wasn't bothered if John did so for work, he said, but he would prefer not to. The following day, he'd been the one to catch John practicing with the gloves, although the doctor seemed much more adapt at it, possibly because he didn't over-think the action.

Sandford's own wedding ring had a polished inner surface, but only in the middle of said surface. He twisted it a lot, but didn't remove it. A worrier or someone who was distracted about something – difficult to tell, perhaps both. It was dirty enough to indicate it hadn't been cleaned on a regular basis, at least not for several years. This was another thing Sherlock avoided – once a month, he'd taken John to the jewellers where he'd purchased the rings and had them both cleaned, until John got tired of making the trek and bought Sherlock a small cleaning kit of their own. Sherlock collected the rings every month still and cleaned them. It was important, he had told John, who seemed to accept that.

Sherlock stepped inside, not consenting to suit up. He was out of Amanda's territory now, and would be damned if he gave way to Anderson about anything. A CSU tech he vaguely recognized was inside the house, dusting for fingerprints, and they nodded to each other as Sherlock stepped into the livingroom. She gave his bruises and bite marks a curious look, but didn't comment, turning back to her work. It was nice, Sherlock thought, when at least one person didn't consider his personal life to be any of their business.

His grey eyes swept the scene, such as it was. It was not difficult to identify the chair in which Sandford had been sitting when he'd been shot, since there was drying blood from the bullet wound on the mildly offensive floral upholstery. The chair in which Sandford had died was matched by a second one and a small loveseat arranged around a low oak coffee table, all contained on an off-white area rug in the middle of the sitting room. Facing him was a fireplace with a faux marble mantle, covered in framed photographs and two candles, mostly burnt down, but dust covered, so not used in awhile. Sherlock avoided the carpet, so as not to disturb any footprints, and crossed the room to the mantle, running an eye over the photographs. Sandford and a woman in almost all of them, so his wife. He glanced about the livingroom again, which was neat and clean, but there was a thin layer of dust on most of the surfaces – this room was cleaned on a regular basis, but not by Sandford himself. So his wife wasn't here, but the pictures still were, so he hadn't left her. Nor had she left him; the dust on the picture frames was undisturbed by recent fingerprints, so Sandford had not been picking them up to gaze at them. If she'd left him, he would have been mooning about, selecting a favourite photo to stare at, probably in collaboration with a bottle of wine, or rum. Sherlock recalled the corpse in the morgue. No, probably vodka for him, he decided. So the wife was away, but not somewhere that troubled Sandford, since he hadn't kept up the cleaning, so probably business, which wouldn't be for long, and would be routine.

He didn't glance back when Anderson came in and harangued him about being out of a suit. Sherlock walked around the back of the area rug, on the patch of hardwood between the chairs and the mantle and stopped behind the chair in which Sandford had died. He evaluated the carpet quickly, then frowned.

The carpet was clean of footprints right where there should have been a set from the shooter. It was a mess of others, of course, the police and paramedics who had been on scene. But there were recent vacuum marks as well, underneath that. The killer had stopped to vacuum away his presence? He crouched down, examining the coffee table and the end table that sat beside Sandford's chair. Both clean, and except for some blood and gunshot residue. No coffee cup marks or dust, but the rest of the surfaces in the livingroom were dusty. So the killer had cleaned this up, too.

He chewed absently on his lower lip, then reminded himself, for the second time that day now, not do that.

He went into the kitchen and opened the dishwasher, pulling out the top rack. The dishes were clean, and all of the glassware and porcelain were dry, but not the plastic storage containers. Sherlock pressed his right wrist carefully to the top of one glass, and it was cool, so it had been several hours since the dishwasher had completed its cycle, but it hadn't been opened, because the plasticware hadn't been given a proper chance to dry. Sandford's time of death had been between ten the previous and midnight, so either he had done this before he died, or the killer had.

Sherlock went back into the livingroom, easily sidestepping the CSU woman, Clara, he recalled, and headed back for the front door. He pulled it open, glancing at the inner edge, then twisted the deadbolt, which swung out easily. Sherlock closed the door again and tried the deadbolt now, with the same results. No scratches on the door, nor round the chain on the inside surface of the door, so Sandford had unlocked it and admitted however killed him. Someone he knew and trusted then, so maybe the wife? No, too obvious, and why drug him and not just shoot him?

He opened the door to see Lestrade coming up the stairs, looking harassed.

"Where's the wife?" he asked.

"On her way back from Glasgow," the inspector replied.

Sherlock nodded, barring access, and chewed on his lower lip.

"_Merde!_" he cursed, pressing his wrist against his lip again. "I need John."

Lestrade sighed and arched an eyebrow.

"I really don't need to know about that," he said.

Sherlock gave him a glare.

"I need someone I can work with," he snapped. "You have a much bigger problem than just the murder here."

Lestrade looked surprised.

"What?" he hissed, pushing his way into the house to escape the ears and boom mikes of the media people. Sherlock shut the door to keep them out as well. Anderson was still hovering, looking displeased.

"This was a hit," Sherlock said. "Not just a murder. So the person you're looking for is a professional."

"_Merde!_" Lestrade echoed Sherlock's earlier sentiment, looking haggard. "Are you certain?"

"The killer drugged Sandford, then shot him, then cleaned up very effectively after himself, but didn't bother to hide the body or anything pertaining the actual shooting – there's blood and gun residue on the tables, but nothing else. The bullet wound was direct and clean and dead center of the forehead, so whoever shot him was trained and experienced. They wanted you to find him dead, because this was just a job. No passion, no anger – this wasn't personal."

"But why?" Lestrade asked, looking resigned.

"Don't know, not yet," the consulting detective replied. "Can you go round and fetch John? I'll need his help."

"I'm not your errand boy," Lestrade growled.

Sherlock checked his watch, ignoring the comment.

"He's on right now, but by the time you got there, he'd be finishing. Early Friday for him, and he had an evening clinic last week, so even earlier this Friday. However, if you don't want me to get anything else done…"

"Fine," Lestrade snapped. "But you'd better have this resolved by the end of the day, then."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and waited until Lestrade reached for the door again before returning to the livingroom. He settled into Sandford's chair and glanced around, establishing where the shooter would have been based on the distance of the gun, the location of the shot, and the angle of the entry wound.

No, he was too tall.

"Anderson, sit," he ordered.

"Not a chance," the other man said.

"Clara?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes at Anderson, who sneered in return.

The tech came out of the kitchen, with an expression that said she was having no real success with her fingerprint search.

"No, too short," Sherlock said. "You're about his height, Anderson. Sit."

Grumbling, Anderson sat with bad grace and Sherlock stepped a meter away from him, evaluating him carefully, ignoring the angry expression on his face. He raised his right hand, aiming two fingers at the other man, then frowned, shaking his head.

"No, that's wrong," he said. "The angle is too sharp."

He lowered his arm, trying to adjust his aim so that he could mimic the position of the gun based on the bullet wound.

Still too tall.

He bent his knees, ignoring Anderson's growing displeasure, until he thought he had it right, but it was still difficult to tell.

"Clara, come here," he said and she appeared from the kitchen again, circling the carpet and stepping up next to him. Sherlock adjusted her position, raising her right arm, then her left, then her right again, deciding the shooter had been right handed.

"Almost," he said. "How tall are you?"

"One-sixty," she replied.

"So we're looking for someone between one sixty-three and one sixty-eight," Sherlock said. "Short for a man, but that would explain why he needed to incapacitate Sandford before shooting him. Sandford was one eighty-three, one eighty-four, not strong by the looks of him, but tall enough that he could put up a fight against someone that shooter's size."

"But how would he have gotten Sandford to sit still long enough to drug him?" Anderson asked.

"Something in his drink or food," Sherlock replied. "Which is why the dishwasher's been run and the tables have been cleaned before he was shot. We need to check the garbages for bottles and food, not that there will be anything, of course. He wasn't sloppy at anything else."

"I'll get some more teams in," Anderson sighed, pushing himself from the chair.

"Good, you do that," Sherlock muttered. "I'm going to check upstairs."

"For what?"

"For some indication as to why Sandford was the target of a hit."

* * *

Greg Lestrade found his way to John Watson's surgery – it was the first time he'd ever been to the clinic, although he had sent officers over before, when John had been attacked by Moriarty in the spring. It felt like a lifetime ago, especially now that the madman was dead.

There were still patients in the waiting area when he arrived, and it was still early enough in the day that no one was panicked about not making their appointment due to the inevitable delays doctors seemed to experience. Lestrade approached the reception desk and flashed his badge.

"Doctor Watson still here?" he asked.

"Yes," the receptionist answered, looking surprised. "He's in his office, getting ready to leave, I think. Everything all right?"

"What? Oh yes, he's needed to consult on a case. Can you point me to his office?"

The young woman obliged and Lestrade made his way down the hall. John's office door was slightly ajar, and he could hear the doctor moving about inside, so he rapped lightly on the frame and pushed the door inward with his fingertips.

"John?" he enquired and John spun, obviously startled. Lestrade was momentarily taken aback by the expression on the doctor's face – he hadn't realized he'd disturbed John so abruptly, but the mild surprise turned to immediate concern when John went white and gripped the edge of his desk.

"John!" Lestrade said, stepping inside, circling the desk quickly as the doctor sank into his chair, knuckles going white against the edge of his desk. "Do you need another doctor? What is it?"

He saw John's jaw muscles working and the jumping of a vein in his temple. Lestrade was disconcerted – he hadn't seen John like this in quite some time.

"Oh, Lord," he realized. "No, everything is fine. Himself needs your assistance on a case."

John stared at Lestrade a moment, then released his hold on his desk, dropping his head into his hands and letting out an abrupt sigh. Before the inspector could say anything else, John reached out without looking and grabbed his mobile, ringing a number. A moment later, Lestrade could hear Sherlock's voice faintly on the other end of the line, launching into some description of whatever he was working on at the moment in Sandford's house.

"Right bloody genius, aren't you?" John yelled, cutting his husband off, the suddenness and severity making Lestrade draw back. "What the sodding hell is your problem, Sherlock? What the hell were you thinking? No, don't answer that! Were you even bloody thinking? Maybe you should try it sometime, since you seem to hold it in such high regard!"

There was a pause as John drew a breath and Lestrade could hear Sherlock's voice again.

"What do I mean? _What do I mean?_ You bloody useless bloody idiot! You sent Greg round to get me without ringing me _on today of all days_?" There was another pause, and John's nostrils flared. "How did you think I'd react? Of course I thought there was a problem!"

Lestrade could hear Sherlock admonishing John to calm down and thought the doctor needed to heed that advice. For a moment, John seemed balanced on a knife's edge, then sucked in a deep breath and, with difficulty, reasserted control over himself. Lestrade had seen others who were well-trained do that, police officers and army officers alike. He knew how much time and energy had to go into learning to do something like that.

Especially when trying to do so in the face of Sherlock Holmes.

John cut off the call while Sherlock was in mid-sentence and tossed the phone back on the desk, glaring at it as though it had offended him. Then he rubbed his eyes, the ring on his left hand catching the overhead fluorescent lights. He looked more tired than normal, Lestrade noted, but then, given the bruises Sherlock was sporting today, perhaps that wasn't a surprise. Lestrade then wished he hadn't thought that last bit.

"Sorry," John muttered. "I just-" He cut himself off, as though he wasn't sure how to finish his thought.

"I still need you there," Lestrade said plainly. "I need Sherlock to solve this, and he wants you. I don't need to put up with his sulks today."

"What is it? The case, I mean," John sighed.

"Hit," Lestrade replied tersely and saw John's expression change. "Yes. That's why I can't deal with the sulks."

John was silent for a moment, then stood, shedding his lab coat.

"Right," he muttered, his expression dark.

"I need him to work," Lestrade stressed.

"I'll let him," John replied, snagging his coat. "Just as soon as I've given him a piece of my mind."

* * *

John stalked into the Sandford house, ignoring the small crowd outside, but snapping on a pair of gloves almost instinctively. There were officers inside, but he ignored them as well, eyes focusing on Sherlock, who was waiting for him. John's eyes darted over the bruises on his husband's neck and the swollen lower lip, which seemed to have been bleeding again, and wondered if he had actually done all of that. It seemed ages ago, and he was too livid to imagine wanting to do anything pleasurable to Sherlock at the moment.

Before he could say anything, Sherlock snagged his wrist, cast a look at Lestrade over John's shoulder, and towed John through the house, out the back door and into the small garden. It wasn't much in the way of privacy, but it was better than inside the house or out front, with the reporters for company. He stopped them near the edge of the house, where the view from the windows would be more difficult, although John was well aware that the neighbours could probably see them.

Again, before he could speak, Sherlock raised his own gloved hands to John's face, grey eyes meeting brown.

"John, I am sorry," he said quickly and softly. "No, I did not think about it. I had no idea it was bothering you this much until you started sleep walking last night."

At this, John was startled.

"I was sleep walking? Why didn't you tell me?"

A faint smile tugged on Sherlock's lips.

"Didn't really give me the chance this morning, did you?" he replied. His eyes flickered over John's face, drinking in details John was certain no one else would ever have seen. "Why didn't you tell me you were having nightmares about it?"

John sighed, closing his eyes, feeling his anger drain away, leaving only fatigue in its place, along with the lingering fear that had been haunting him the past few days.

"I always have nightmares," he replied, opening his eyes.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said. "That doesn't mean you need to stop telling me. Especially now, if it's really bothering you." He paused again, his eyes still locked on John's. "It's been a year, John. Today or tomorrow or yesterday, it doesn't matter. It isn't going to happen again."

"I know that, Sherlock," John sighed. "But not everyone is as rational as you."

"What are you dreaming?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed again, closing his eyes again, dropping his head slightly.

"No, tell me," Sherlock pressed.

"That it's you in the morgue when Greg comes to fetch me," John said in a tired voice. "Or you on the bridge instead of Sam. Or Moriarty shooting you, instead of the other way around."

He felt Sherlock's thumbs stroking the skin beside his left eye gently.

"Those things didn't happen."

"I know they didn't happen, Sherlock," he said. "But that's how dreams are."

"John."

"Mmm?"

"Look at me."

Reluctantly, John opened his eyes again, raising them to meet Sherlock's.

"I am not going anywhere," he said. "I am not dying because I've been hit by a delivery truck. I am not falling off a bridge. I am not being shot. I am not in the morgue. I'm right here. And I _will_ stay right here. I have absolutely no intention of missing out on the rest of my life with you."

John managed a small smile and saw it reflected in Sherlock's eyes. His husband moved his right hand to John's chin, tilting his head upward slightly and leaning down to kiss him gently. John kissed back, feeling Sherlock's swollen lower lip and the slight tremble in it that told him that the bruise was tender at the contact. They stayed that way for several minutes in the cold January air, then drew apart, resting their foreheads together. John bundled his hands into his pockets, wishing he had something more than latex gloves on.

"Now," Sherlock said with a faint smile. "I really do need your help on this case."


	4. Chapter 4

John felt extraneous, since there was no body at the crime scene, but he knew Sherlock really did work better when he was around. He'd never bothered to point that out though, because he knew Sherlock would fuss over it, deny it, and then try to prove a point by working harder when John wasn't around, only to end up sabotaging the whole operation. He could do his job a far sight better than most people even without John's presence, but it helped stabilize him around the others with whom he had to work. John knew how important that was, at least to the Metro police.

There was no getting around Anderson, though.

Sherlock showed him the crime scene, which was really not all that impressive – a bit of blood and some gun shot residue, nothing more. Sherlock was excited about this, though, and kept chewing on his lower lip then cursing, which made John hard pressed not to laugh. He kept his mirth to himself, because he knew Sherlock's bruises were discomfiting to Lestrade, who kept staring at the younger man when Sherlock wasn't looking. John wasn't so sure why the inspector was put off – he was the one who had been grateful that Sherlock had a settling influence in his life.

John wondered who this Roland Sandford was that he merited the attentions of a hit man.

"Do you remember what I said about serial killers on our first case?" Sherlock murmured to him in a low voice. They were standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor of the Sandford's home, watching while the forensics team combed the livingroom. John knew Sherlock was consenting to stand back because he'd seen everything he thought he was going to see.

He was unusually subdued for Sherlock on a case – meaning he wasn't running about with joy at the prospect of a puzzle to solve, rather he was standing in one spot, hands in his pockets, but he was absently tapping his hands against his thighs through the fabric of his coat and following the events with a sharp eye.

"Something about wanting attention, wasn't it?" John asked.

"No, they always desperately want to be caught," Sherlock said, eyeing a policewoman as she moved about the livingroom. "This one's going to be a problem. By definition, a hit man doesn't want to be caught. Can't make a living from prison."

This explained the lack of over-enthusiastic running about on Sherlock's part, at least.

"To be sure," John murmured, wondering where he'd gone wrong that day. He was standing next to his husband, whose lips and neck were covered in bruises of John's doing, ruminating about the habits and livelihoods of murderers. It was Friday. He should be in a pub with a pint. Or at least at home with a good book.

"What was Sandford doing that got him killed anyway?" John asked.

"Still working on that one," Sherlock replied. "He was a life insurance investigator."

"Well, I can see that being a contentious field," John commented. "Though not one I'd associate with being professionally done in."

"Depends on whom he was investigating," Sherlock said, still jiggling his hands in his pockets. An impatient look crossed his face.

"Why are we still here?" John asked, reading the expression expertly. There were things Sherlock wanted to be chasing down by now, and John was certain he'd scented something, but couldn't tell what.

"We're missing something," Sherlock murmured, eyes still on the CSU people in the livingroom. One of them moved past them onto the stairs and John and Sherlock stepped forward in unison, letting her past. Sherlock's eyes darted to her momentarily, narrowing and darkening, but he looked back to the livingroom after a second, and John wondered if he'd actually seen what he thought he'd seen there. Perhaps Sherlock just had an animosity towards this woman as well. Or it was spilling over from Anderson.

"Other than who killed him?" John enquired. "At least we know it wasn't a random murder."

"No, something else," Sherlock said, then looked up abruptly again, eyes widening. He turned his gaze to John for a moment, then to the stairs. "Clara."

John started at the mention of his former sister-in-law's name. He hadn't thought much of Clara recently – it had been over three years since she and Harry had split, and although he felt badly about it, because Clara hadn't deserved how Harry had treated her, he'd never been particularly close to her.

"What's Clara got to do with this?" he asked.

"Harry is your _sister_," Sherlock said.

"Um, yes," John replied. "This isn't news."

Sherlock drew his gloved hands from his pockets, eyes suddenly bright.

"Don't you see?" he exclaimed, laughing. "What do we know about the killer?"

John tried to get back on mental track here.

"Hit man, seasoned professional because he shot Sandford without hesitation after drugging him quite expertly and cleaning up all traces of the himself, but not the murder, because he wanted Sandford to be found."

"All very good, but wrong," Sherlock said.

"What? This it what you told me!"

"I remember that quite clearly, since it was ten minutes ago. But still wrong."

"Wrong how?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned.

"Clara!" he called, looking up the stairs. John frowned, but a moment later, the CSU tech he'd seen go upstairs leaned over the banister, careful not to touch it, even with gloves and a suit on. She gave him a questioning look, but didn't say anything. "Come down a moment," Sherlock said and with a small sigh, the woman obeyed.

"John, Clara; Clara, John," Sherlock introduced them. She nodded at John, giving him a knowing look, correctly deducing where Sherlock had gotten his bruises and John felt himself redden somewhat under her gaze.

Without warning her, Sherlock steered the policewoman into the livingroom, hands firmly on her shoulders, and stopped her on the carpet where the shooter would have stood when he fired. He turned back to John expectantly, but the doctor only shook his head. Some of the activity had stopped, and Lestrade was watching with crossed arms.

"Think!" Sherlock said. "You're the one who told me today I ought to try it! Anyone?" He cast a glance around, but received no replies. John did think, furiously, running through everything that Sherlock had rambled off about the hit man after John had arrived.

"No?" Sherlock asked. "Don't you see? John, who would you let into your house?"

"Um," John said, caught off guard again. "I don't know, friends, family, the police if they identified themselves and had good reason, I suppose."

"But who that you don't know?" Sherlock pressed. "If you didn't know me, would you let me in?"

"No, you're a lunatic," John replied, which Sherlock ignored.

"What about Lestrade? Anderson?"

"Sorry, I'm not following – why would they come into my flat if I didn't know them?"

"That isn't important," Sherlock said. "Would you let them in?"

"Probably not," John admitted.

"What about Clara?" he asked, tapping the tech's shoulder.

"Well," John said. "I suppose, maybe, if-" he cut himself off, comprehension finally dawning. Sherlock laughed, crossing the room and kissing him, unbothered by the room of police personnel watching them.

"Yes!" Sherlock said triumphantly, then turned back to Lestrade, who was still watching, baffled, although John was less certain this was because he hadn't caught up, or because he was not used to seeing Sherlock snogging John.

"Not a hit man, don't you see?" Sherlock pressed. "A hit _woman_. Oh, I was wrong, this is going to be terribly fun. I've never had a female serial killer before."

He grinned what John considered a very inappropriate grin at the prospect of a woman who made her living shooting people in the head and clapped his hands together, then grabbed John's wrist.

"Let's go!" he said, dragging the doctor out of the house before John or Lestrade had a chance to protest.

* * *

"Sorry, why did we leave?" John asked once they'd settled into a cab and were on their way back to Baker Street.

"Nothing more there," Sherlock said. "She'd have made sure of that." John cast Sherlock a look that told his husband quite clearly he knew something else was up. "Also, I stole Sandford's external hard drive."

He pulled a small drive out of his coat pocket and John dropped his head against the headrest, groaning.

"How did the police not take that already?" he demanded.

"They didn't look for it," Sherlock replied. "Oh, yes, they'd taken his computer and laptop and whatnot, but this," he shook the drive very gently for emphasis, "This was not something Sandford wanted anyone to find. What do you think I was doing while waiting for you?"

John rolled his eyes.

"I didn't really think about that," he commented. He had been too angry to think of much of anything.

"Not a bloody useless bloody idiot, then, am I?" Sherlock enquired, raising an eyebrow. John sighed. It was impossible to stay angry at Sherlock, even when he tried. The other man just moved too fast for anything to keep up.

"Bloody thief is what you are," John said. Sherlock grinned and was about to reply when they were both distracted by the buzzing of their phones.

"Blast Lestrade," Sherlock said, fishing his out, juggling it with the hard drive. John pulled up the text message, which was not, in fact, from Lestrade, but from Tricia.

_You're both going to be uncles! We just found out! Wanted to tell you in person, but am too excited!_

John blinked, then broke into a grin, looking up. Sherlock was staring at his phone with an expression John had never seen before – utter shock at being presented with an idea that he had not even remotely entertained. That was saying something. Quickly, John raised his phone and snapped a photo. He attached it to a text reading:

_Sherlock's expression at that. Congratulations! We're v. excited, too!_

"Don't send that!" Sherlock hissed but John laughed and disobeyed. Privately, he had been wondering if something like this was in the offing – although Tricia and Henry had been uncertainly dating when Tricia had first introduced him to John, the doctor had suspected that they were both what the other was looking for. He had been proven right when they'd found a place together in early December. John understood the quick pace – he and Sherlock had gone from flatmates and friends to partners in the space of one night. Something about the war made the desire to act on these possibilities so much more present.

_We'll meet up tomorrow,_ Tricia texted back, to both of them again. _Details then._

John texted back an affirmative answer, chuckling at Sherlock's continued reaction. He wondered if Mycroft had ever considered having children, but even then, it wasn't as though the brothers were particularly close. Whenever John thought about it, he hoped to hell Harry didn't have kids, because there were already too many screwed up people in the world. He had generally assumed he would have children himself, before becoming involved with Sherlock, which had changed that, but John had no strong feelings about it anyway. Sherlock would certainly not make a good father – John had tried to picture what this might look like and had utterly failed. Babies and crime scenes did not mix well. Nor did Sherlock's habits towards life, schedules, other people, or keeping toxic substances in the flat.

"Well," Sherlock said. "A card from Bess, unclehood, _and _a female hit man. A good day all around, then."

John just laughed.

* * *

When they arrived home, Sherlock installed himself in front of his computer and John made himself scarce, not wanting to know what was going on. He reasoned he could at least claim ignorance that way, if Lestrade sent anyone round for another fake drugs bust. And this time, it would hopefully actually be fake. John kept a tight eye on that, but if Sherlock ever used hard drugs, it was either before he'd met John, or he was very, very good at hiding the symptoms. Since John was a doctor, he suspected the former.

John read for awhile in their bedroom, then took a short nap, mercifully dream free, although he could hear Sherlock moving about, even through his sleep. When he woke up, he was glad to find himself still in his bed, and wondered how often he'd been sleep walking, if it had just been the one time.

The smell of something cooking made him raise his head in alarm, but another whiff told him it wasn't toxic or hallucinogenic. In fact, it smelled good. Like pancakes. John's stomach gave a greedy rumble and he pushed himself out of bed, padding into the livingroom. Sherlock had turned on some music – Beethoven, which was about the only thing they could agree on – and was moving about the kitchen in his bunny slippers, the sight of which made John roll his eyes wryly.

"Hope you're hungry," Sherlock said, without looking up or so much as indicating that he'd heard John emerge from the bedroom.

"Starved," John replied. Sherlock whirled and presented him with a plate full of blueberry pancakes drizzled in syrup and bacon.

"You made this?" John asked.

"Brilliant deduction, as always, John. I did. It's quite simple, really. Very scientific in its preparation, if one only follows the steps."

John sat down at the table, pushing some equipment out of the way, hoping he wasn't disturbing anything volatile.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, picking up his fork and tucking in. Sherlock snorted, waving a spatula vaguely at him without looking round from the frying pan. "Shouldn't you be working on Sandford's hard drive – not that I'm sure I want to know."

"I'm running a decryption program," Sherlock said. "I think he may have been trained by the ESA or NASA, because I've never rarely seen anything quite so gifted."

"Better than you?" John asked, mouth full of pancakes. They were really quite delicious. He wondered about the possibility of making Sherlock cook everything from now on.

"Better than me _for now_," Sherlock stressed. "Not, I suspect, in the long term. Nor even the short term. Whatever's on there, he went to great lengths to protect it."

"And probably died for it," John noted.

"Yes, and that," Sherlock said, finishing his cooking and plunking himself down at the table opposite John. He began eating but, as usual, John suspected his husband was less focused on the taste and more on the case at hand. Sherlock enjoyed food when it occurred to him to do so, and when he had nothing better to do. Privately, John thought there was very little better than good food – a few things that topped the list, but a good meal came close.

But Sherlock's grey eyes were glinting in the way that John recognized as his mind buzzing at its highest speed. It was no wonder he'd set himself to cooking something, John thought, if he was temporarily stalled by Sandford's encryptions. He would need something to do, to keep himself from going mad. It was a good sign that he wasn't hacking into the Metro police's files again, but then, John realized, it had been about two hours since they gotten home. And pancakes did not take very long to make.

They finished eating quickly, then Sherlock dashed off to check on Sandford's hard drive. John gathered the dishes and began piling them in the sink, vaguely surprised when Sherlock came back into the kitchen. He was more surprised when the detective's hands rested on his shoulders – John had a momentary twinge in his left shoulder that was part pain, part instinctive reaction against the possibility of pain, but it was forgotten when Sherlock began to knead the muscles that John hadn't realized were sore and tired. He dropped his head forward, giving a satisfied groan, then chuckled.

"Now I _know_ you've kidnapped and replaced my husband," he said.

Sherlock kissed the back of his neck lightly and went back to massaging it, his long fingers working out the knots in John's shoulders and neck.

"Don't be daft," Sherlock said. "You're wound tighter than a spring. You need to relax."

John laughed.

"Sorry, _you're_ telling _me_ this?" he asked.

"I can relax quite well," Sherlock said, contrary to all of the evidence John had ever seen. "I just do it very quickly, and for short periods of time."

"Right," John said, then, "Mmm," when Sherlock hit a particularly difficult knot in his right shoulder. "And you're not just doing this because you're bored and want to get me into bed?"

"I'm not at all bored," Sherlock said. "I have a perfectly delectable case in front of me that I'm giving the full attention it requires at the moment. And I always want to get you into bed. Why would I not?"

John shifted so he could turn around and face Sherlock, who adjusted the position on his arms and kept working at the knots on the back of John's shoulders, taking care with his left shoulder, not to press to deeply and to avoid the old wound and its scar tissue.

"I've never understood what it is about me," John said.

Sherlock gave him an odd look, his hands pausing for a moment.

"Pick one street in London to describe the whole city," he said.

John blinked, puzzled.

"What?" he asked.

"Pick a single street in London that you think would describe the entire city," Sherlock repeated. "One street that encompasses everything you like about it, everything that makes London London."

John frowned, chewing on his lower lip for a moment, turning his eyes away to consider the problem for a moment.

"I couldn't," he said. "There isn't one. Why?"

"So why would you ask me to tell you one thing about you as if it were an answer?" Sherlock replied. "That's nonsense. It can't be done. It isn't something about you, John. It _is_ you."

John blinked, somewhat stunned. He had never thought of it quite like that before – he had a mental list of everything he loved most about Sherlock, but when he considered it, it was the man's whole presence in his life, the good, the annoying, the utterly insane, that he would miss if it were gone. Seeing this on his face, Sherlock nodded.

"Remember what you said to me about friends the first day we met?"

"This is the second time you've asked me about that day today," John replied.

"That's not an answer. Do you?"

"Mmm, something about how normal people have friends, not arch enemies, wasn't it?" John asked, closing his eyes and tilting his head slightly to the left so Sherlock could better knead his right shoulder.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. "You're turning me into a normal person. I have a husband and friends. I make breakfast. I occasionally remember to bring in and sort the mail. I didn't realize it could be so enjoyable."

John chuckled, keeping his eyes closed as the muscles in his shoulder unwound.

"Sherlock, you will never be a normal person," he said. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock leaned down and John felt his warm breath on his own lips a moment before Sherlock kissed him.

"Come," Sherlock murmured. "Let's go upstairs."

"Why upstairs?" They kept Sherlock's old bed up there, having moved John's down to their bedroom, since it was better and newer, but John needed a place to escape Sherlock's nocturnal activities sometimes, particularly when he was engrossed in a case and working all hours. They also kept it for company, although it was less used for that, but Tricia had availed herself of it once or twice after a particularly long and gin-filled evening with John.

"I'm feeling sentimental," Sherlock murmured against John's lips.

"The sheets will be dusty," John said.

"Then we shall give them a good airing," Sherlock replied and John smiled into their kiss. "And if we time it right, the encryption should be broken by the time we're done."

John laughed, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and tugging gently on his curls.

"You charmer," he said and Sherlock chuckled, grasping John's wrists and pulling him out of the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

_Please, god, let me live. Please.  
_

Hands on his shoulder and hot, white pain. Blood seeping through fingers. Yelling. More pressure. More yelling.

"Stay with me, Johnny, stay with me."

_Don't call me that, you know it drives me mad._

Tricia's face against the too-blue sky, the too-bright sun.

"No, no, no, stay with me, dammit, Johnny. You don't get to check out and leave me here, understand?"

_Please, god, don't let me die.  
_

He screamed when they moved him.

"John. John." A whisper, a light touch on his cheek. "John, open your eyes. I know you can hear me."

With effort, John opened his eyes. Tricia's face, blurred, exhausted, shaken. Dark circles under her eyes. Why? Where was he? It was so hard to think, to focus. She smiled, but tears streaked her face. Why crying? A shaky breath as she nodded.

"That's it, welcome back."

He closed his eyes for a moment. Pain blossomed in his shoulder and John gritted his teeth. Someone was talking to him, though. He grappled with himself, fighting to open his eyes. When he managed to do so, Sam was standing over him, Sam as John had known him, with the dark hair, not the lighter hair he was supposed to have now. He evaluated John with his green eyes and said something, in French.

"I don't – I don't understand," John groaned. His shoulder ached, sending pain down his spine.

Sam spoke again, rapid French. John tried to follow, but realized it was Sherlock who spoke French, not him. Sam seemed adamant, trying to impress something on John, but the doctor could not tell what. He shook his head then regretted it when pain flared again. John groaned, screwing his eyes shut. Sam's voice was still there, insistent, but the words were indecipherable.

When John managed to open his eyes again, he was in his bedroom, in the Baker Street flat. The space beside him was empty and cold, undisturbed, so Sherlock hadn't been to bed all night. Not really a surprise. John had rolled onto his side sometime during the night and slept on his left shoulder, which explained the dreams.

He barely suppressed a groan when he moved.

And it explained the pain.

Carefully, he pushed himself up with his right arm, crossing his left over his chest and waiting for the little spots that danced in front of his eyes to clear, then eased himself out of bed, padding into the livingroom, feeling groggy. Sherlock was perched in front of his computer, still wearing his clothes from the day before, and didn't seem at all tired. John wondered how his husband did that.

He considered asking Sherlock about what Sam had said in his dream, then realized since he didn't speak French, whatever Sam had said would just be gibberish, really.

Sherlock glanced up at him, then frowned. John sank down onto the couch, hissing gently.

"Slept on my bad shoulder," he said. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet without a word, disappearing into the bathroom, and John fought the instinct to look over his shoulder to see what he was doing. A moment later, Sherlock was back with a small thermal patch and John almost moaned in relief. He also had some ibuprofen – John refused to take anything stronger now, even though Sherlock gave him a Look when he said so – and a small glass of water. Without comment, Sherlock gave John the pills, then put the glass to his lips for him, tilting it carefully so John could swallow. Then he eased John's pyjama top off, also carefully, and expertly, and John had a moment's regret that this was not being done for its usual reason. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him; he must have caught that in John's face or eyes, but didn't say anything.

Cautiously, Sherlock probed John's left shoulder until the doctor hissed between gritted teeth and the younger man put the thermal patch on that spot. Then he lay John down carefully on his right side, putting the hideous Union Jack pillow under his head and another small pillow behind his left shoulder. He tucked his paramedic's blanket over John, who was genuinely touched. Sherlock was oddly possessive about that blanket, for reasons John had never understood.

"Find anything?" John asked, his voice still thick with sleep and pain. Sherlock returned to perch on his chair, eyes intent on his laptop. Sandford's external hard drive was hooked up to it.

"Oh yes," the consulting detective replied, nodding. John waited a moment.

"What?" he finally prompted. There was a pile of papers next to Sherlock with his familiar scrawl all over them, his writing sloppy, as if he'd been transcribing without looking at the sheets, not actually writing.

"I'm still sorting through it," Sherlock said, his voice somewhat vague, which John recognized as him being more focused on what was in front of him than on the conversation. "Not only was it encrypted, most of it was recorded in Sandford's personal shorthand, which is quite sophisticated. And some of it is written in Portuguese."

"He spoke Portuguese?"

"Evidently," Sherlock commented dryly. "This would be an ideal opportunity for you to tell me you have a hitherto unknown ability to speak Portuguese."

"More likely to be you," John pointed out. "It's only English for me."

"I do not speak Portuguese," Sherlock said, "Although I may now have to learn. This is a mess, but I suspect deliberately so. He had stumbled onto something quite big, I think."

"Identify the killer?" John asked.

"No, not yet. Nor had he, at least, not until she showed up and shot him. The information is almost all here – I think he was one step away from figuring it out. Which is probably why she caught up with him when she did."

"Best not to answer the door then, today," John commented.

"Best to keep your Browning out," Sherlock replied. He lifted some of the papers to reveal his own pistol on the table beside him, and John saw that he was serious. The doctor sat up slowly and then stood, making his way into the bedroom, where he kept the Browning carefully stored in a box in the closet. Sherlock came in a moment later and got it down, just as John was trying to figure out how he'd reach up with only one good arm that morning. Then Sherlock vanished again. John supposed it was too much to ask that the consulting detective made breakfast that morning – normally his job, but not, John suspected, today. He went into the kitchen and made himself some coffee and toast, delivering a plate and mug to Sherlock as well, which were ignored.

"What've you got?" John asked, sipping his coffee. The warmth of the drink and the thermal patch were doing wonders for his shoulder.

"It started out quite simply," Sherlock said, eyes still trained on the laptop screen. "He was investigating several suspicious sums of money transferred from life insurance policies to a beneficiary. Not individually suspicious, but there were several of them, tracing quite circuitous paths to get to where they ended up."

"Embezzlement, then," John said.

"On the surface, yes. It would seem as though our hit woman's employer was redirecting funds from her victims' life insurance policies, but it is not quite that simple. These policies were never claimed by the families of the victims, according to Sandford's research, so that means that someone else was taking them out on their behalf and then profiting upon their murders."

"Victims?" John said. "How many are there?"

"Including Sandford, five," Sherlock replied.

"So someone was setting them up with hefty policies and killing them? Seems like a lot of work."

"It does, doesn't it?" Sherlock mused. "Which is why that wasn't the point. Surficially, of course, it would look like insurance fraud, although Sandford had not been able to track down the beneficiaries of these life insurance policies. The funds did not go to one bank, of course, the accounts into which the money was deposited were forged, closed fairly shortly after the money was received, meaning it was redirected elsewhere. There must be a trail for that, too, although I suspect it is likely even more convoluted than the initial deposits. Every step of the way, every person who received the money, saving bank employees, were fakes. All aliases, which means that someone has quite a lot of capital and resources to invest in this."

"But why?" John asked.

"Don't know yet," Sherlock replied. "At first glance, there appears to be no pattern to the victims. Other than Sandford, they don't seem likely victims in a murders plot. Look," he spun the laptop toward John, who had regained his seat on the couch, but was no longer in need of lying down. The painkillers and the distraction Sherlock was providing were helping.

John looked at the information displayed on the monitor. The document was just a list of names, five of them, three women and two men. Sherlock toggled to another window and John saw police files for all five victims appear on the screen – he doubted that came from Sandford's hard drive. Sherlock had a way of accessing police files that made John more than a little uneasy.

"First victim, Lindsey Ashton, fifteen, from Leeds. Found dead a block from her school after being missing for a weekend. Shot in the head. The local police ruled that it was a random homicide. They never identified any suspects nor made any arrests.

"Second victim, Michael Bainbridge, twenty-two, a student at Oxford. Found dead in his dorm room, again, shot in the head. Police there had several suspects, but never made any arrests, either.

"Third victim, Shannon Clarence, seven, again in London. Went missing from her school ground and was discovered later that day across town, shot in the head. No one saw anything, neither at her school nor near where her body was found, so once again, we end with no suspects and no arrests."

John's stomach recoiled at that one – who would shoot a seven-year-old girl? What had she done?

"Fourth victim, Mary Campbell, forty-three, here in London. Found dead in her flat by her husband coming home from work. No signs of force entry, no signs of struggle. The husband was arrested, but never charged, since his alibi did end up holding up."

"These don't seem connected," John said.

"No, they don't," Sherlock agreed. "Other than the life insurance policies that were taken out on them without their knowledge, there seems to be no pattern. However, Sandford was getting close. It's taken me some time, but I think I've got it."

John nodded, rotating his bad shoulder. Sherlock's coffee and toast had gone cold, and unnoticed.

"The first victim, Lindsey Ashton, is the daughter of a local fire-fighter and a stay-at-home mother. Not much there, because it's difficult to take issue with a fire-fighter, unless he's an arsonist, but I checked his record and it's clean, not so clean that it's suspicious, however. He isn't starting fires, and even if he were, why shoot his daughter? That is, quite literally, overkill. However, he has a sister, Bridget Ashton, in London, who works as an investigative reporter for the _Times_. She has no children – some sort of genetic condition called Mayer-Rokitansky-Kuster-Hauser syndrome."

"Yes," John said. "I've heard of it. It's caused by lack of embryonic development of a uterus in a female foetus. I've never encountered anyone with it before."

Sherlock nodded, but in a distracted way that indicated he wasn't really concerned with that detail.

"She was therefore very close to her only niece. Bridget and Lindsey's father, Bradley, are twins, so already quite a close sibling relationship there. I haven't yet been able to find out what Bridget was working on when Ashley was murdered, but that was six months ago, and she's since left London to move to Leeds to be closer to her brother. Officially, she's still on staff at the _Times_, but has not done much recent work.

"The second victim, Michael Bainbridge, has no interesting family connections. Both parents are primary school teachers in Sunderland, and he moved to Oxford at the age of eighteen to begin university. He has two younger siblings, both teenagers, both still at home. His extended family is not particularly interesting, an uncle on his father's side serving in Iraq, whose family is also in Sunderland. The mother has an older sister, married, no children, doesn't work, and a younger sister, married with two younger children, works as a receptionist at a local barrister's. However, he was studying computing sciences and working for a professor specializing in coding and encryption. Here's where we get our first solid connection.

"Shannon Clarence's father, Richard, works for the Beckenham MP, managing and gathering information. It was difficult to find, because it wouldn't have been advertised or public knowledge, but he contracted Michael Bainbridge's professor to decrypt some documents. The work was passed onto Bainbridge himself, after some negotiation with Clarence, since the young man showed exceptional abilities in this regard. Michael was murdered thirteen days before Shannon was."

John blinked in surprise. The pain in his shoulder was entirely forgotten now.

"The third victim was almost too obvious. Mary Campbell was the wife of a bank manager at one of the banks Sandford had been investigating for these phoney insurance payment schemes. The bank wasn't under official investigation, but I suspect that Gerald Campbell, the husband, had begun to look into what he considered some suspicious activities in the transactions. His alibi for that day puts him, in part, in meetings with his superiors, although nothing formal appeared to have been launched at the bank that day."

"Wouldn't the police catch on to all of this?"

"Different departments, different boroughs. Differences in the overlying pattern as well. Lindsey's appears random on the surface. Shannon was kidnapped and dumped, suggesting it wasn't a homicide in nature, at least not initially. Michael and Mary are similar on the surface. Michael's work, however, was destroyed, although this wasn't immediately brought to the attention of the police, because of the sensitive nature. When it was reported, his supervisor refused to say what he'd been working on. The computer itself was left in tact, indicating whoever did this was well versed in destroying data. Mary Campbell's home was ransacked and several pieces of expensive jewellery and some electronics were stolen, in an attempt to make it look like a break-and-enter gone wrong."

John sat still for a moment, digesting all of this.

"All right," he said, nodding slowly. "But why kill people who were only peripherally involved through family? Why not kill the people actually involved?"

"Because that would establish some sort of pattern, draw attention, and if you kill the people involved, you have no hope of learning how much they knew or had uncovered. But killing someone close to them disrupts the work, halts it, gives our hit woman's boss time to find out how far their work had gone. The only reason Sandford himself was killed, I suspect, was because he was too close to discovering the hit woman's identity. In this case, she may have acted on her own, or on orders, difficult to say."

John chewed on his lower lip.

"So how do we catch her?"

"You have a shower, dress, and then we go out," Sherlock replied.

"What, sorry? How does that help?"

Sherlock gave him a long-suffering look.

"I've been making my search somewhat accessible, and it's no secret that I was at the crime scene yesterday. By now, our hit woman will know that Sandford's death was not due to the shot to the head, but to being drugged, which means she'll know I'm onto her. So either she, or her employer, will want to know what's going on, how far I've gotten. Given the pattern, they won't be after me, but after you."

John started.

"You're going to use me as bait?" he demanded.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied. "It's the easiest way."

"Not to me! There's no defence against a bullet to the brain!"

"No one is going to haul you off the street and shoot you, and you will have your gun. As will I. Only the children were kidnapped, because to do so to an adult requires a lot of strength or a good opportunity. If we're out in public, they will not be afford that opportunity."

"We have to come home sometime," John pointed out.

"Yes, but we'll have spotted her before that," Sherlock said in that off-handed way John recognized. The consulting detective was eerily good at deciding when he'd have solved something, and John had not yet known him to be wrong. Still, he was not cheered at all by this prospect. He'd been Moriarty's bait once. That had been more than enough.

"What about Mycroft or your parents?" he asked.

"These people only go after individuals who are close to the source, or in Michael's case, working on the problem. I _have_ considered this. I'm not overly close to my parents, so that if anything happened to them, I wouldn't stop working on it. As for Mycroft, well, they can have him, frankly, if they can get to him. Anyone who could bypass his security arrangements deserves to win."

"Sherlock, that is cold," John said.

"I would not at all stop working if Mycroft died," Sherlock replied forthrightly. "As for Harry, I barely know her, so she's out of the picture as well. That leaves you."

"That's so comforting," John muttered. "How will you tell someone following us apart from Mycroft's people?"

"I know all of them," Sherlock said vaguely.

"What? How?"

"I hack into his computer once a week and check for new employees. Don't tell him, though, it would only upset him. He does like to think that he has some upper hand in this."

"So wait, you're telling me you've accessed all of their files? What's Althea's real name then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Go shower and change, John," he ordered. "Take the Browning with you. Oh, and do your physio stretches for your shoulder. I'll not have Tricia tearing a strip off me for you not caring for it properly."


	6. Chapter 6

When John finished showering and stretching his shoulder, he went back into the livingroom to find that Sherlock had changed and that the man was apparently making some concessions towards using John as bait. He'd never apologize, but it was almost as good to see him wearing jeans, the dark blue pair John especially loved, and the purple silk shirt that suited him so perfectly. He was intent again on his computer, frowning in concentration.

"What is it?" John asked.

"There are still several files I haven't been able to access," he replied.

"Do you want to wait?" John asked, hoping this would be the case.

"No," Sherlock said, checking that the decryption program was running properly, then secreting the laptop and the hard drive away somewhere. John knew most of Sherlock's hiding places and occasionally checked them for anything illegal or likely to decompose, but he didn't bother trying to figure out where Sherlock was storing his laptop at the moment. The less he knew, the better.

They dressed in scarves, jackets and gloves and headed out. It was brilliantly cold, rather than the typical rainy London January day. Instead, the sun was shining brightly, cutting through the frigid air, and John bundled his hands into his pockets despite his gloves, his breath leaving frozen crystals around him.

"Where to?" he asked.

"The shops," Sherlock replied. "We need groceries. Wherever you normally go. We're out on errands, John. You're in charge. I'm just watching."

John nodded, considering.

"Right," he agreed. He didn't want to walk far, because it was cold, so he led them down Baker Street and then over to Glentworth, where he knew some shops he liked. Sherlock walked beside him quietly, but his grey eyes were bright and alert. John kept a keen eye out as well; he wasn't as perceptive as his husband, of course, but years of army training had taught him how to observe those around him.

Although it was still fairly early, and cold, the London streets were already busy. John recognized a face here and there for the neighbourhood, and exchanged good mornings, but felt as though nothing were out of place. Save for Sherlock consenting to go shopping with him, though. It was a struggle to have Sherlock pick up groceries at the best of times, and he generally did so under protest, and almost never went along with John. Then he complained when John blogged about being out and about, saying it was boring. Well, it was boring, but they needed to eat and keep the flat stocked with essentials, such as soap and toilet paper. Occasionally, John wondered how Sherlock ever would have managed if he hadn't found a flatmate.

They perused the markets, John taking the opportunity to pick up what they did actually need. Assassin or no assassin, they would need food for the next few days. The prices of produce appalled him, but then, it was the middle of winter. Sherlock never worried about money, and John knew he didn't have to either; his salary as a doctor would more than keep them going, and Sherlock's family was not without independent financial means. John had had some troubles accepting this initially, but had eventually grown used to it, secure in the knowledge that if anything ever happened, he could still support them. Doctors were never in low demand.

"Anything?" he murmured at one point, while pretending to examine an eggplant.

"Several people have been watching us, but nothing out of the ordinary. You'd think no one had ever seen two men shopping for food."

John smiled. It wasn't worth explaining to Sherlock that no, this was not entirely the norm, and that women found the idea cute and very domestic, not to mention unthreatening. Sherlock did not particularly have a good sense for women.

"Well, they're probably checking you out," John replied, deciding that yes, eggplant would be good, even if the price was ridiculously steep.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes. For a man with such sharp perception, he was remarkably bad at seeing how other people perceived him, unless it was with animosity. It just didn't occur to him that people might actually find him attractive. Even now, this still baffled John.

"Any of Mycroft's people?" John asked, leading them through the small shop, looking for some tea biscuits.

"Only one," Sherlock said. "Busy day for my brother, perhaps. Can't babysit me as much as he'd like."

"Well, that's not so bad, then," John replied. It was something he disliked intensely about Mycroft – the man needed to learn to relax and leave them alone. He didn't like knowing he was being watched, even though this state of affairs had been made clear to him the day he met Sherlock. Several loud and pointed conversations between the brothers had led to a decrease in the surveillance, though, over time.

They finished shopping, or at least John did, and Sherlock finished following him around the store, paid, and left, stepping back into the brisk air. The traffic had picked up during the time they'd been inside, the vehicles leaving fogs of fumes behind them in the cold air. John glanced about, trying to decide where to next. There was a Dutch cheese shop nearby that he liked, and they needed to go to a bakery.

He led them generally in the direction of Gloucester Place, stopping in at a bakery for some fresh bread, and Sherlock purchased a chocolate croissant, very generously splitting with John.

"Anything yet?" John asked as they left.

"No. I will let you know, John."

Privately, John thought this would probably happen only when Sherlock decided to chase someone down, but didn't comment. They stopped in a café for some take away hot chocolate. Sherlock's phone buzzed as they left and he muttered under his breath, pulling it out. He frowned at the text, then shook his head.

"Greg?" John asked.

"No, Tricia. She wants us to go over."

John had almost forgotten that Tricia and Henry wanted to see them that day. They didn't live particularly far from John and Sherlock, having purchased a small flat in an old, sectioned off Victorian house on York Street, close enough that they were convenient, far enough that both couples still had their space and privacy. John enjoyed having her close by; after three years of her remaining in Afghanistan and him being in London, it was nice to have an old friend in the area.

"Tell her we'll call later," John said. "We can go see her once your superior brain has found its target. Don't text that last bit."

Sherlock smirked and replied to the message, dropping the phone back in his pocket.

"I don't see what she finds in Henry," he said. "He's dull."

"Yes, but you think everyone is dull," John replied.

"That is not true. I don't think you're dull. Or Tricia. Henry isn't offensive at least. But boring."

"Well, we aren't all looking for adventure," John replied with a smile. He agreed with Sherlock privately, but he liked Henry nonetheless, and thought he was a great match for John's old friend. It was a bit like being an older brother, evaluating the younger sister's boyfriend, in a way it had never been with Harry. Mostly because Harry was a drunk who picked the wrong women, or found good women, like Clara, and treated them poorly.

"Whyever not?" Sherlock asked.

John took a sip from his hot chocolate.

"She told me once that she'd had enough insanity for one lifetime," he replied. "She said to me that she'd spent seven of the longest hours of her life saving mine, then had to stay on three years in Afghanistan, doing it over and over again."

Sherlock considered this for a moment.

"Ah," he said finally, nodding. "Perhaps she shouldn't have operated on you, if it was emotionally difficult. There are rules about that, aren't there?"

"They apply to family members but maybe she shouldn't have," John agreed. "Although she wasn't about to let anyone else do it, and she did save my life."

"I shall remember to send her a card," Sherlock replied and John chuckled. They walked a few more paces before Sherlock stopped abruptly, reaching out without turning his head to grasp John's arm and stop him up short as well. "Oh. Oh, no."

"What?" John asked, dropping his voice. "Do you see someone?"

"No," Sherlock said, turning his gaze to meet John's and the doctor was immediately concerned by how pale Sherlock was, even for him. "No, John, I was wrong, it isn't you. Because they'd know I was waiting for that. It's Tricia."

John stared at Sherlock a moment, then dropped his shopping and his hot chocolate and took off running south. A clatter behind him told him Sherlock was right on his heels, his husband talking urgently into his phone, to Lestrade, barking an order to have officers sent to Tricia's place. John ignored all of this, as well as the shock of the other pedestrians and the grumbles from people he shouldered past. Where there were no sidewalks, or where these were closed for perpetual construction, he took to the streets, dodging cars and the cyclists who were mad enough to be out in this weather. Sherlock was a few steps ahead of him now, his longer stride making it easier to do so. John gritted his teeth – this woman was going to have a hard time of it if she thought she could threaten a former army doctor who was also pregnant.

He tried not to remember that the adult victims had all be shot, and probably drugged beforehand.

It took them less than three minutes running to get there, and there were sirens in the distance, but still too far away. Sherlock grabbed John as the doctor made for the front entrance to the old house.

"Go round back," he hissed. "Up the fire escape. She texted me, not you. Let her think I've come alone."

John stared at him a moment, then nodded, circling round the back of the house into the alley, eyeing the old fire escape. It was raised, of course, but he glanced around, dragging two trash bins underneath the elevated ladder and clambering onto them. As it was, he could just close his hand around the bottom rung – Sherlock with his advantage in height would have been able to reach without difficulty. John gritted his teeth, checking to make sure the Browning beneath his coat was secure in his belt against the small of his back, then grasped the ladder with both hands and pulled himself up. His shoulder screamed but he swallowed on a reactive cry, using all the strength he normally did not have to call upon to haul himself up. Nearly gasping, he managed to get a hand on the second rung and pull harder, finally gaining the ladder. John hung on for a precious moment, sucking in a deep breath, then swung himself up onto the fire escape properly, running up it as quietly as he could.

Halfway up, a small face appeared in a window, startling him.

"Hey, mister," a little boy greeted, pushing his window open. "What are you doing?"

"Police," John lied. "Get out of the house, understand?"

The boy looked alarmed, but John didn't stop, mentally trying to locate Tricia's flat from this vantage point. She was on the top floor and he thought he recognized one of the windows as being hers, and hoped to hell that he was right. He darted up to it and checked it, expecting it to be locked, but it gave way after a couple of gentle tugs; if it had been locked, the lock was not working properly. With an old house like this, it was not so unexpected, but John gave a fervent prayer of thanks to any deity who might be listening, and swung himself inside.

He was in Tricia and Henry's bedroom, which was silent and still, the door to the hallway closed. John crouched instinctively, pulling out his pistol, and listened hard. He could hear the faint murmur of voices from somewhere beyond the room: a familiar baritone that was Sherlock, and an unfamiliar woman's voice. He strained his ears, but could not hear Tricia.

There would be hell to pay, he vowed to himself, if she were dead.

John crept silently across the room, keeping himself low, listening to the sound of approaching sirens. The police were not, in fact, good news, if they burst into the flat without knowing the situation. He eased open the door and the voices grew louder, coming from somewhere down the hall. John toed off his shoes so he was in stocking feet and slipped into the corridor, keeping a tight rein on his breathing and its volume. He pictured the layout of the flat in his mind, and decided the voices were in the kitchen.

He crept along the corridor until he reached the archway for the kitchen and kept his back pressed against the wall. Sherlock and the unknown woman were arguing.

"Consider this a warning," she said and her voice was tinged with Hindi accent. Fake, John thought vaguely, but very good.

"Warning against what?" Sherlock asked.

"To stay out of that which doesn't concern you," she replied. "The others didn't get such a light warning. No, don't move, or I will shoot her."

John fought against the nausea brought on the relief. Tricia was still alive.

"Leave this alone, Holmes. You're getting your one caution. You won't get another."

"You murdered five people," Sherlock said.

"It's my job," the woman replied and John decided it was time to risk it. He darted his head around the corner very quickly, taking care to stay silent, thankful for all of his army training and experience. A woman in a ski mask had her back to him, Tricia standing next to her, a gun pressed against the doctor's throat. Tricia was taut and rigid, her hands balled into fists. No sign of Henry. John didn't give himself permission to think about that. He could be anywhere. Sherlock was standing with his hands up, palms out, his own weapon on the floor between them. Sherlock's grey eyes noted John's appearance without calling attention to it, and John ducked back around the corner.

"What do you plan on doing now?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll let me walk out of here, and drop this, and no one will be injured. It's a simple solution."

"Except the police are almost here."

"Please," the woman said. "Don't patronize me. I know my escape routes. And who suspects a panicked Indian woman, hmm?"

John gritted his teeth, having had enough. He stepped into the kitchen, pinning the muzzle of his Browning against the back of the woman's head.

"Drop it," he ordered. The moment was enough for Tricia, who had been waiting, John could tell, for any hint of an opportunity. The doctor grabbed the hit woman's right arm and shoved it away, toward the floor so that she was unable to aim at either Tricia or Sherlock, then pulled the woman toward her, kicking out at the same time to catch her squarely in the stomach. The hit woman doubled forward, trying to right herself almost immediately, but Tricia pulled her off balance, slamming her right wrist against the counter. The doctor grabbed the gun the other woman loosened her grip on it momentarily, swinging it around to aim squarely at the other woman's head.

"Really bad idea, threatening an army doctor," she said, her voice shaking, but her hand on the weapon steady. "Do you think I hadn't had anything aimed at my head in Afghanistan?"

John stepped further into the room, keeping his own weapon trained on the woman who was now on the floor, very carefully not moving.

"You're not going to shoot me," the younger woman said, raising her masked face to meet Tricia's eyes.

"Not unless I have to," Tricia agreed. "I'd much rather see you in prison."

Something flashed in the woman's eyes and John recognized it a moment too late. She launched herself at Tricia, who fired unflinchingly. The movement was interrupted and the woman collapsed onto the kitchen floor, blood pooling from her head through her ski mask. Tricia stood over her, chest heaving, eyes bright.

"Tricia," John said, ignoring Sherlock as the detective retrieved his own gun. "Tee. Stand down. Weapon down, Tee."

Tricia nodded then, crouching down carefully and putting the gun down on the white tiles of the kitchen floor, some of which were staining red very quickly. She held her hands up as the police burst in and John moved instinctively in front of Tricia, his weapon down, ensuring she wasn't the police's target. There was a long moment of confusion, with officers yelling at John and Sherlock to put down their weapons, then Lestrade was there, and the situation began to diffuse. John surrendered his gun to Sherlock and crouched down beside Tricia, pulling her gently to her feet.

"Where's Henry?" he asked softly.

"At work," Tricia replied. Her voice was even, but her eyes were slightly stunned, and John nodded. He had served with her long enough to know she could handle this, but the doctor in him was also concerned because she was pregnant, and had been held at gun point by a professional hit woman.

"We'll call him back and stay until he's here," John assured her. She nodded, a slightly mechanical motion.

"I'll need to go to a hospital," she said in a calm, clinical voice. "Just in case."

"We'll make sure you get there," Lestrade cut through the conversation. "And we'll need to talk to you. All three of you."

* * *

It was well over twelve hours later before everything was resolved, as much as it was going to be for that day, at least, and Lestrade cut John and Sherlock loose, sending them home. Tricia had been taken to a hospital, and John had accompanied her, sending Sherlock with the DI to explain things as best he could, and to try to help figure out who the hit woman was. John seriously doubted they'd be able to identify her, though, if what Sherlock had discovered about her activities was anything to go by. He stayed with Tricia until Henry arrived, assuring Henry that everything was fine with both Tricia and the baby. Tricia added her own medical opinion to this, and was backed up by her attending physician.

John left them there – they were keeping Tricia overnight for observation, in part because she and Henry could not return to their flat, which was currently a crime scene and which would need the kitchen tiles replaced before they could go home. John went to Scotland Yard with a glowering police escort, since he was evidently not to be trusted to go on his own, and made Lestrade promise that until the kitchen was fixed, the police would provide Tricia and Henry a decent hotel room nearby.

Official statements were taken, retaken, examined, questioned, and a crown prosecutor finally ruled that charges would not be pressed, since the shooting had been in self-defence and the deceased woman in question was responsible for five other murders that they knew about, although John suspected pinning these on her would be difficult. They didn't even know who she was. She'd been carrying no identification, of course, nor were her fingerprints in the police system in any capacity. John and Sherlock were let go, since they couldn't be charged with anything anyway, but not until after Lestrade had yelled at them for several minutes about their conduct. Sherlock listened without comment, taking the rant with equanimity, and John nodded along in all the right places, pretending to be contrite. Privately, he felt that Tricia had done the country a service, and the woman had frankly committed suicide anyway, at the prospect of being sent to prison.

When they got home, it was silent in the Baker Street house, not a peep from Mrs. Hudson downstairs, who was used to their bizarre schedules. John rang up the Chinese place nearby that was open until the early hours of the morning while Sherlock fished out some brandy from somewhere and poured them each a hefty measure. John accepted it gratefully, then his husband disappeared to reclaim his laptop and Sandford's hard drive, which would later be confiscated by the police. John sighed.

"Sherlock, can you let it go right now?" he begged. "Please?"

"I'm doing the police a favour and ensuring those other files I didn't have decrypted are ready," Sherlock, the model of civic mindedness, said. John rolled his eyes wearily. The consulting detective settled himself in front of his computer again and John muttered to himself under his breath, fishing about in his wallet for the money to pay the delivery driver when their food came.

A moment later, a clatter startled him and he looked up to see Sherlock jumping up and backing away from the computer as though stung, or shocked.

"What?" John demanded. Sherlock didn't reply, but stared at the screen with wide eyes, disbelief like John had not seen before written plain on his features. Then Sherlock leaned forward again, eyes narrowing, flickering over the screen. John joined him quickly, leaning in as well.

The files were images, only three of them, but one would have been enough. They were black-and-white photos taken from a distance, but of fairly good quality, showing the hit woman, at whom John had had a good look, when the police asked him to try and identify her. She was in an unidentifiable parking garage, mostly empty, one or two silent dark cars in the background.

Talking with Mycroft Holmes.


	7. Chapter 7

John went almost immediately after that, ordering Sherlock to remain at the flat, keep his mobile on, and keep his gun handy. He used the tone of voice he rarely had to employ, the one that told Sherlock he would accept no arguments. John could tell Sherlock was considering pressing the point, but a hard look from the doctor silenced him, resulting only in a curt nod. John took his Browning, pulling it out as soon as the cab dropped him at one of Mycroft's preferred meeting places. Mycroft was waiting for him, having received an angry call from John, and the older Holmes look weary and resigned.

"No Sherlock," Mycroft noted. "I'm surprised, to be honest."

"I ought to shoot you," John said, his voice tight. "And I'm not sure I could have stopped him from doing it. More trouble than it's worth for either of us, although it really doesn't feel that way right now."

"To be sure," Mycroft said. His calm tone raised John's hackles.

"Five people, Mycroft!" he shouted, aiming the gun without really thinking about it. He kept it steady, finger off the trigger, but ready. "A seven-year-old girl!"

He clung hard to that anger, keeping it at the forefront of his mind, so it was what Mycroft would read in his face and eyes, and not the more recent memory.

Sherlock had burned the postcard Sam had sent before John could stop him, over the kitchen sink.

"Better there be no evidence," he had said. "He's safer that way. I can't trust what Mycroft would do with this information."

It wasn't so much the act, which in and of itself had shocked John, but the expression on Sherlock's face as he did so.

Anguish.

Betrayal.

"_You're turning me into a normal person. I have a husband and friends."_

Friends he now felt could not be kept safe knowing him. John felt as if all the progress he'd seen Sherlock make in the time he'd known him had been stripped down in that moment, burnt along with the postcard.

When the ashes had settled, Sherlock had leaned over the sink, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles had turned white. John had held his hair out of his face but Sherlock did nothing more than breath hard through gritted teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"This may surprise you, John, but I do not make all of the decisions," Mycroft said, his voice tired.

"Shooting a seven-year-old is not a decision," John replied, a hard edge to his words. Mycroft regarded him for a long moment, tapping his umbrella absently, unthinkingly, against the hard concrete floor.

"I don't approve of the methods, either," he said. "This has nothing to do with you or Sherlock."

"You had your hit woman threaten Tricia. She. Is. Our. Friend."

"And she was not my hit woman. If she were mine, Sherlock would have found her when he checked the records of those who report to me. Yes, I do know about that – he _is_ my brother, after all," Mycroft replied. The gun didn't waver, and nor did John. He did not believe that, not a whit. "I do have to report to people higher up than me. They do make decisions that I must implement, even if I don't agree with them. And, strange as it may seem to you, my brother's safety is not my sole responsibility. There are choices that must be made for the good of England, John. _That_ is my responsibility."

"There is no good that can come from murdering two children," John hissed.

"Yes, tell that to your generals, won't you?" Mycroft said and John suppressed an internal wince. "Do you think that we protect ourselves simply by being in countries that are unstable and trying to stabilize them? It's working magnificently, isn't it? There are dangers here on par with what you faced. Perhaps worse. These are the choices I need to make every day. I don't excuse it, John. But nor will I change it. Sometimes, the ends _do_ justify the means."

"_Nothing_ justifies this," John said, encompassing the five people the woman had killed, Tricia being held at gunpoint, and Sherlock destroying the card Sam had sent, the only communication they'd had from him since Veronique had appeared then disappeared again in early December.

Somewhere, five families would never see their loved ones again. Moriarty had arranged similar matters a year ago with the crash. It made John feel nauseous.

"I hope you enjoy reaping what you've sown, then," John said tightly, lowering the gun. Mycroft truly didn't seem concerned about having had the weapon aimed at him, which was infuriating. "I can't stop you from keeping tabs on us, but I can stop you seeing us. This isn't sibling rivalry, Mycroft. You've no idea what you've done."

"I've done my job, John."

"Maybe you should have thought about your priorities before doing so," John replied. "Whatever it is that you think you're doing to keep England safe, I sincerely hope it was worth losing your brother. If I ever see you near our flat, I will shoot you. And I'll enjoy it."

He put the gun's safety back on and slipped it back into his belt against the small of his back. John turned and walked out, leaving Mycroft behind him, without a backward glance.

(**End**)

* * *

**A/N:** Oh, my, that ended much darker than I was expecting!

I miss Sam. Should he come back for a visit?


End file.
